The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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January 17
DE MINIMIS CURAT DEUS |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
22
January 17 DE MINIMIS CURAT DEUS
“The very hairs of your head are all numbered.”—
St. Matt. x. 30.
Each matter counts, each mite hath part
And power in God's great systemed Grace,
If finds an echo in His Heart
And some soft reflex of His Face.
O we are lapt in Boundless Love
And nothing can be out of place,
There is no under or above
Within the Father's wide embrace.
And power in God's great systemed Grace,
If finds an echo in His Heart
And some soft reflex of His Face.
O we are lapt in Boundless Love
And nothing can be out of place,
There is no under or above
Within the Father's wide embrace.
My fairest fear, my sweetest pain,
Is bound to broader schemes and scope
In tune with a sublimer strain,
Not measured even by harps of hope.
The thorn of thought which draggeth down
To darkness, whence no portals ope,
May be a gem in Jesu's crown—
Reached but by His red Altar slope.
Is bound to broader schemes and scope
In tune with a sublimer strain,
Not measured even by harps of hope.
The thorn of thought which draggeth down
To darkness, whence no portals ope,
May be a gem in Jesu's crown—
Reached but by His red Altar slope.
The smallest trifle still must tell,
Though how I do not fully see,
And is a little heaven or hell—
According as I choose to be.
A tear is infinite, the pang
Where I am least myself and free—
On each eternal issues hang,
They lead through shadow, Lord, to Thee.
Though how I do not fully see,
And is a little heaven or hell—
According as I choose to be.
A tear is infinite, the pang
Where I am least myself and free—
On each eternal issues hang,
They lead through shadow, Lord, to Thee.
The Prisoner of Love | ||